


save me from tomorrow

by dickviolin



Series: save me from tomorrow [1]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, Laver Cup, M/M, Oral Sex, sad boys being sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 22:51:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20881976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickviolin/pseuds/dickviolin
Summary: blanket disclaimer for works containing sascha zverev. see notes for more detailswhat kiki doesn’t know can’t hurt her





	save me from tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> hi,
> 
> as you are probably aware if you pay attention to tennis, olya sharapova, sascha's ex-girlfriend, has made credible accusations of domestic violence against him (including screenshots and multiple witnesses backing up her testimony). if you are likely to be triggered by things like that, i would not recommend reading her instagram posts/interviews with her; the details she has given are graphic, shocking and utterly sickening. 
> 
> i'm not going to take any of my fics containing sascha down. i don't want to pretend that i didn't support him for eighteen months before all this came out. i don't want to pretend that we weren't all duped. i want these works to exist as a record of the dangers of thinking you know anything about someone in the public eye. if we write fiction about people, we're actually just writing about characters loosely based on what people allow us to know about themselves. 
> 
> however, i don't feel comfortable writing any more fic about sascha. i don't want to receive kudos for this- please don't leave them- and i will delete comments if and when they are left. please respect that, and please don't read this fic. 
> 
> believe women. exercise caution. be good to yourselves and others. we are all fighting invisible battles. 
> 
> ~dickviolin

The thing about Domi is he’s so goddamn _nice_.

More than once Sascha has been stuck for hours listening to him talk passionately about the oceans, about how much plastic there is in the Pacific, about the level of pollution in the Bay of Bengal. The last time he came round to Sascha’s parents’ house, when he was still living at home in Hamburg, Domi had to be physically restrained from doing the dishes. He smiles at small children in prams, and apologises profusely to cashiers when he doesn’t have exact change.

It makes fucking him behind his girlfriend’s back really hard for Sascha.

The first time it happened it was fine. They were teenagers (that is, Sascha was: he’d just turned eighteen, and Domi was twenty-three, but same difference, really). Teenagers do stupid shit sometimes. Like dropping to their knees in the shower block of a set of public tennis courts, parting their lips just a little, saying ‘Do you?’, and nodding profusely. Sucking their older Austrian friend off; letting their younger German friend suck them off. Domi had pulled his clothes on and run a towel over his wet hair and jogged back out onto the courts to play another quick practice set, all without meeting Sascha’s eye, and Sascha had never been able to go to Vienna again without thinking of it.

But it was fine. What _wasn’t_ fine was what happened later. Two years of not talking about it, not even skirting around the subject, just straight-up acting like nothing had happened. And then, a 250 tournament somewhere sunny on clay. Sascha had been lounging around on his bed waiting for Mischa to come and entertain him, or for his dad to come and tell him it was time to practise. Two sharp knocks on the hotel room door.

“It’s open,” he said in English.

“That’s not very secure,” Domi replied in German. He wrinkled his nose and stepped inside. He scanned the room in vague disapproval. Sascha didn’t care. “I won my match,” Domi went on. He was wearing a sky blue kit and the streaks of clay showed up like bloodstains.

“Hey, that’s great, man,” Sascha said, sincerely, even if that meant they would end up playing each other later.

“Thanks.” And then he’d stood very still and he looked more serious and tortured than Sascha had ever seen him. Maybe he’d just found out about another oil leak in the Gulf of Mexico.

“Domi,” Sascha had started, but Dominic cut him off by closing the door behind him and then pulling his shirt over his head.

“Kiki isn’t here,” he’d begun. Sascha swallowed. Hot fear rose in his gut.

“You miss her, huh?”

“If I ask you to fuck me, you won’t tell her, will you?”

“Domi, I-” _I’m not going to help you cheat on your girlfriend, I’m not going to be your mistress, I’m not going to do any of that, don’t you respect me?_ “OK.”

“You’ve got- condoms and stuff.”

“Yeah,” Sascha said. Domi nodded, once, resolute. So Sascha had got up, and taken the little bottle of lube and a condom from his washbag on the bathroom counter, and then gone back out and stood staring at Domi across the bed.

“Bend me over,” he’d said. “Don’t kiss me. Don’t look at me. Just do it, OK?”

And it killed him how much it turned him on.

And so begins their…_thing_, halfway between a routine and a ritual. Kiki is elsewhere- another tournament, or with her family in France, or whatever. And Dominic comes to Sasch’s room and gives two sharp knocks, and they barely say anything.

“Harder,” Domi would whisper at first, until Sascha worked out how he likes it. Now he knows to make the desk or the bed, or whatever they fuck over, shake, slam into Domi, grab him by both hips and pull him in. And Domi comes, hard and loud, and then Sascha comes from the exquisite feeling of his shuddering tensing around his dick. Domi gets dressed and leaves without saying goodbye, and Sascha is left to the clean-up, wiping Domi’s cum off whatever surfaces he’s managed to hit, and burying the condom under layers of rubbish in the wastepaper bin so his parents or Mischa don’t spot it when they come in.

Sascha sticks to his rules. He doesn’t look. He doesn’t kiss. He gets on with it. Later, he and Domi will find themselves together on the practice court or in the hotel bar or at a press junket. Somehow, neither of them break, and to all intents and purposes it looks like they’re good friends. Maybe Kiki wonders why Sascha always has a headache or needs an early night when she’s around. Maybe the other guys wonder too. Maybe someone in the next room hears them, hears the low, animal sounds Domi makes. But so far, they seem to be fine.

(Late at night, wide awake, Sascha thinks about how much it would hurt if he were her. How much he’d want to kill whoever it was. Whoever was getting the one he loved, giving them something he couldn’t. Sometimes he cries. He never says ‘no’ when Domi comes in, though).

They get drunk at the Laver Cup, Sascha especially, because everyone wants to buy him a drink. Eventually they get back to the hotel, and he and Domi are stumbling down the same corridor, and then they’re stumbling into the same room, and it’s Domi’s room, and they’ve never done _that_ before. Sascha’s throat is raw from yelling and his muscles ache. Domi pushes him up against the door as it shuts behind them. It’s almost pitch-black in the room, the only light coming from the en-suite.

“You gonna?” Domi whispers. Sascha has a moment of panic. Not about the morality of fucking a guy who’s in a long-term relationship with someone else- just about the practicalities of getting it up when he’s this drunk.

He opens his mouth to speak and Domi takes his hands off him like he’s been burnt.

“I can’t,” he says. “I’m gonna- I’m going to ask Kiki to marry me.”

“Ahhh,” Sascha says to that, eloquently.

“So I probably shouldn’t be. You know? This isn’t sharing.”

Sascha thinks then of the whispers he’s heard about Roger and Rafa. About how sometimes Stan Wawrinka’s involved, or sometimes two or three of the Spanish guys pass Rafa around like a fuck toy while Roger watches. Roger and Rafa have been together for years, though, and they’re in love, properly, disgustingly loved up, so that’s different.

“This is cheating,” Domi says. This is cheating, Sascha thinks. Has been thinking, since he started this. Domi gasps out a sob. “This is cheating. I’m cheating on her.”

Sascha retreats. He knows it’s over. In the morning, Roger will ask him what’s up, and he’ll laugh wryly and say, _fuckin’ hangovers, man_, and Roger will laugh too but the laugh won’t make his eyes and a few hours after he lands in Beijing he gets a text saying _If you need me, you know where I am_. He’s grateful beyond measure and knows he’ll never be able to tell Roger a thing.

Domi is quiet and distant when they next meet. Kiki’s ring is beautiful. Sascha wishes he’d broken the rule, just once, and kissed him.


End file.
